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Dejá vù is a bitch, was what Gi-hun had decided.
It was grief, grief that was so achingly familiar and harsh, like a scab that was torn off before it got the chance to heal. Like Death taking your friends, survivors, away before they could ever see their families again, before they could ever go outside, and breathe, or just go down the street to buy groceries, or play pranks, or get married, or fall in love, or have fun. And Dejá vù took that terrible, nasty feeling and played it like a Jack-in-the-box, springing it onto people at the worst possible times. Death and Dejá vù always wrangled Gi-hun the same, tearing their claws into the flesh of his neck and taking the last of the air out of his lungs, just to give them a kickstart again.
Gi-hun felt his heart tear every time he noticed something familiar; the doll, and he large room with sand and paintings of the outside world that were too childish to convince anyone, and the sun that shone over their heads, with nobody in the room thinking that it could be their last time seeing it. The way one foolish move, one mess up changed nearly a hundred lives by ending them, shooting them through the heart and brain and leg and back and—and killing them. Really, truly, killing them. Catching another player—holding him up with the help of a lovely woman, player 120, and hoisting him to the finish line was just so achingly familiar to a certain angel of Gi-hun’s that had once saved his life, just to die later.
It stopped his heart for a moment.
Gi-hun felt himself choke every time he noticed something similar; the buttons, the tie between the X’s and O’s had nearly stopped his heart because—100 to 100 and 182 to 182 weren’t so different when his mind was as jumbled as it appeared. And the same damn player—player 001–always had the last vote. Always had him holding his breath for too long, wishing, hoping he could go home. He’d returned to the games once, when it had gone his way. He couldn’t do it again. He didn’t have to. Player 001 decided to keep playing.
It took his breath away for a moment.
Gi-hun felt his brain stutter, stop when he noticed something he recognized; two women who stood near the circle during the Pentathlon. One was player 120, the other was 095. He watched the smaller one, 095, awkwardly mouth ‘Do you want to team up?’ and he watched the taller smile in response, nodding gently. And it was nice, since 120 hadn’t been able to find a team, but all Gi-hun could focus on were their shadows, which had taken a terribly vague resemblance to two people that Gi-hun had known before. The shorter turning, mouthing, ‘Want to be partners?’ and the taller nodding, and taking her hand, and the sight made Gi-hun want to cry because fuck, he’d seen this before. Maybe that’s why, when 095 was shot and locked out of the room while 120 sobbed, Gi-hun couldn’t help but notice their shadows doing the exact same thing.
It made his brain falter for a moment.
And when Gi-hun saw what they were given one night in their meal—metal forks with the tips a little too sharp—he could smell the terribly tangy scent of metallic blood, and he could hear bottles shattering while his vision flickered in and out with the lights. Of course, it happened, and Gi-hun could hear the screams of people from the last games, being dragged around by player 101 who smashed bottles and pieces of the bed into their heads without shame, spilling their brains and splattering their blood. He could almost see the bloody handprints on the door, so desperate and so afraid, begging to leave and be saved before they were murdered. It never happened.
And he could see them in the new players by his side.
He could see Sae-byeok in the furrowed brows of Jun-hee when she heard something she didn’t like. He could hear Sae-byeok in the prolonged silence and hesitation Jun-hee took before answering questions, he could sense Sae-byeok when, somehow, like she had, Jun-hee stayed by his side.
He could see Ali in the way Dae-ho would smile happily at a joke, or grin at his team when they completed a game. He could hear Ali in the friendly comments and banter and friendship that Dae-ho so easily seemed to obtain, and he could sense Ali when saw the look of pure determination on Dae-ho’s face, but never anything close to betrayal.
He could see Deok-su in player 100, their bitterness, strive to murder off others for selfish cash.
He could see Mi-nyeo in player 144, their same uncomfortable presence that seemed to grate on others’ nerves to the point where it was unbelievable.
And, shit, he saw Sang-woo in Jung-bae and Young-il.
He could see Sang-woo in the way Jung-bae so casually mentioned ‘one more game,’ how maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.
But that’s where the similarities ended for them.
However, he could see Sang-woo in the way Young-il’s eyes would scan a room before he took action, cold, calculating gaze making a plan before anyone else could beat him to it. He could hear Sang-woo in the sharp, almost disapproving comments that Young-il would casually mention, ways to make Gi-hun think twice for no reason, or even as a challenge, and he could sense Sang-woo when the man would, for some reason, check and see if he was alive with a gaze that Gi-hun had never seen anything like, except for Sang-woo. It was the gaze Sang-woo had before he killed himself. It was the last look Young-il gave him before he was murdered.
And Gi-hun felt numb when he noticed, or rather absentmindedly thought, of the way things always seemed like they were repeated, like history repeated itself.
Held down to the ground, pinned against the freezing floor that still, despite everything, couldn’t snap Gi-hun out of the hazy daze he found himself in when he watched Sae-byeok be lowered into a coffin. The phantom feeling of guns and hands against his back, threatening to put him in his place if he didn’t remember it as Sang-woo watched with a straight face. Held down to the ground, against the freezing flood that still, despite everything, couldn’t snap Gi-hun out of that loud static he found himself in when he watched Jung-bae’s blood stain the ground as he fell back. The phantom sound of his name—a curse—being mumbled upon his best friend’s lips as the Frontman all but taunted him by simply being in his presence.
It felt like torture, remembering everything, and everyone, because history truly did repeat itself. People would die time and time again, make the same mistakes, kill the most people, die and die and die and kill and kill and kill for money. For blood money made from the flesh of 455 dead players.
The misty, hazy shadows taunted Gi-hun as he was roughly dragged away by guards, tears streaming down his face and making his eyes puffy, all while he remembered the things most familiar, that he couldn’t help but mark as a bitch: Dejá vù.